


I'll Be Gone

by missbluebonnet



Series: The Lovely Moons [8]
Category: The Mandalorian (TV)
Genre: Blind Character, Din Djarin is a stressed dad, F/M, Family Fluff, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Romance, Unresolved Romantic Tension, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-11
Updated: 2020-04-19
Packaged: 2021-03-02 00:47:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 20,137
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23586364
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/missbluebonnet/pseuds/missbluebonnet
Summary: While visiting Canto Bight for some work, you realize why the Mandalorian chooses not to trust people so easily.
Relationships: Baby Yoda & The Mandalorian (The Mandalorian TV), The Mandalorian (The Mandalorian TV)/Reader, The Mandalorian (The Mandalorian TV)/You
Series: The Lovely Moons [8]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1638400
Comments: 163
Kudos: 673





	1. I'll Be Gone

**Author's Note:**

> So I know I said we'd find out what Din drew in the last chapter. That will happen next chapter. Oops.  
> Also thank you to EVERYONE who has been commenting and leaving kudos! Y'all are amazing!

When you wake up, the ship has left behind the pretty meadow, the bubbling stream, and the little campfire with your secrets. The dawnless morning aboard the ship is spent in peace with the Mandalorian quietly at the helm while you give the baby a warm bath in the refresher’s sink. You giggle when he tries to eat the soap bubbles, massaging his ears and making sure you clean between his tiny fingers. When he’s dried and changed, you climb up the ladder, still not feeling very graceful doing it, and make your way into the cockpit. 

After putting him in his cradle, you move around the small space, coming to the Mandalorian’s right side. You reach over, your hands moving over the controls, the blurry array of colors lighting up your vision. 

You can practically feel his alarm.

“What are you doing? Don’t-”

You cluck your tongue at him, not unlike how you used to hush the young women in the brothel near the cantina when they would worry about you bringing leftover food from the kitchens. His hand encloses around your forearm just as your other finds what you are looking for. The shiny knob the child loved so much comes right off with just a simple twist of your wrist, and when he realizes what you are about, you feel his fingers loosen. But he doesn’t let go.

When you turn to face him, you’re shocked to hear a quiet, strangled chuckle come through the modulator of his helmet. His hand draws you back so he can survey you, and...was...was he  _ laughing _ ?

“What?” you ask, mystified when he leans back in the chair.

“You look like you lost a fight with the fresher,” he says, his chuckles still exuding mirth.

You draw your hand over your front, and true to his observation, you are nearly soaked through. “Oh,” you laugh, shaking your head as you turn away. You give the child his favorite toy, which he eagerly reaches up for. “Well, I can’t help it if the little one insists on splashing like he’s fighting off a gundark.”

The Mandalorian chuckles more at that, and you can’t help but smile. The sound is rich and deep, and it brings the hair on the back of your neck up in a delightful way. Too restless to sit, you drift back toward the pilot’s chair, leaning gently against the back. 

“Where to now?” you ask, watching the outline of his shape. You can’t make out much, even with all the starlight, but you can tell he’s sitting close, straight and perfect.

You hear him flip a switch, and you think he must put the autopilot function on because he gently turns the chair to face you. “Ever been to Cantonica?” At the shake of your head, he lays his gloves flat against the curaisse on his thighs. “There is a city on the coast of this planet, surrounded by desert and known for its wealth. I think I can find work there fairly easy.” 

“We do need supplies,” you allow, looking down at the flight panel and drawing your fingers over the lit up controls. He had not turned the lights off ever since showing them to you. “What makes you think work will be easier to find?” you ask, curious. His mind was different from other men you’d known-not that such a list was extensive. Another thought occurred to you, angling your head toward him. “Won’t it be too dangerous for you to accept guild work?”

“I’m not looking for guild work.” He sounded pleased for some reason you couldn’t fathom.

“So what then? As a mercenary?” you ask, sarcasm coloring your tone. When his helmet tilts in challenge, your lips part. “Really? Isn’t that...even more dangerous?”

“Think of it more like hired muscle. I don’t intend to die or kill for someone just because they have deep pockets,” he says, leaning back in his chair and resting his gloves over his belt buckle. You lean back on the panel where it’s smooth, your boots tucked against his own as you face each other. “It’s not so bad. Most of these men have gambled away too much or they’re in debt, or another feels slighted enough to want a message sent. It pays well, so it offers a high reward for a low risk.”

Your eyebrows raise, crossing your arms as you consider it. The lack of resistance to the idea concerned you more than the thought of him wrangling deviants, truth be told. He was older than you, more experienced as a man and a deadly warrior. Surely, he’d taken into consideration the drawbacks and the gains of such an expenditure, and...well, you knew he wouldn’t put himself in a firefight he had no chance of winning. The small babbles you heard from the corner of the cockpit assured you that he was not a reckless man. 

No, the Mandalorian was precise, intelligent, and patient. You would be lying to yourself if you didn’t admit that it was some of the qualities that drew you to him-a thought which spears you with shock.

“What?” he asks suddenly, drawing your head up with a jolt. “What is it?”

You blink, feeling skittish. “I didn’t say anything.”

“You…” he sounds like he’s frowning, too. “...you have a look. You’re flushed.”

The heat in your face deepens, and you straighten up quickly, twisting the damp fabric of your dress in front of you. “It’s nothing,” you mutter, turning away quickly and heading to the door. “I...I’m going to change.”

The turn of the chair follows you, and you think he might try to stop you. He doesn’t, thankfully, and you climb down into the hull, swallowing thickly as you find your few belongings that you store in a lower compartment near the bunk. You lean against the cold metal wall, taking a deep breath. Your heartbeat is quick, and the heat in your face and belly won’t cool. 

Something...something deeper feels tight, and you press your brow firmly against the wall, trying to force it all away. When that pull doesn’t dissipate, you search for a bathing sheet and step into the refresher, turning the water as cold as you can, hoping to rid yourself of the feverish feeling. You almost think you’re sick, but...no, you feel fine. As you wash, the milky bar you use to cleanse your skin moving over your chest and lower, your toes curl. 

Oh.  _ Oh _ .

With one hand pressed to the cold metal wall of the stall, you take a deep breath. You have not felt much in years of servitude and slavery. You were not allowed to form attachments outside your lady in guardianship, and, even then, it had been something that was so frowned upon by the Moff that it left you too anxious to truly languish in it. But now, you set the bar of soap aside with a shaking hand, fumbling for the rack where the few toiletries you own are stored, pressing your sudsy palms in front of you on the wall.

The water is freezing, chilled by the pipes of the ship, and you stay under the spray until your teeth begin to chatter, your knuckles aching and red. It does the trick, and when you wrap yourself up in the bathing sheet and begin to dress, you feel clean and refreshed. You dress with perfunctory movements, choosing an extra layer of fitted pants beneath your thick woolen dress. The berry stained fabric was the simplest of bolts you’d been gifted by the Mandalorian, but it was your favorite. They all had different textures, making it easy for you to tell which piece was which. You sat on the edge of the bunk and began to comb and brush your hair, working out the knots and tangles with careful fingers. 

You were no longer warm like before, and goosebumps covered your bare arms where your sleeves split open up to your shoulders. Considering those feelings, you made yourself wait in the hull until your hair was dry, hoping you’d feel back to normal by the time you climbed the ladder into the cockpit once again. It felt...not wrong, but sacrilege to have those feelings so close to him. 

He gave you his name. He trusted you. These small reminders tamed the heat building in your cheeks.

The baby coos when you step through the threshold and sit in your usual chair, his ears fluttering happily at seeing you again. You don’t notice the Mandalorian sitting up straighter, and you don’t see him inclining his head in your direction when you take your seat on his left. 

The baby reaches a hand out towards you, grabbing the air with his tiny fingers and huffing sweetly in an effort to get closer. You don’t hesitate to pick him up, wrapping him securely in your arms and smiling as he snuggles closer to your chest. The small, contented sigh he lets out fills your heart with peace, and you hardly realize that you’ve closed your eyes until you feel something heavy and warm drape around your shoulders.

“Are you alright?” The Mandalorian is standing beside your chair now, arranging his cloak so it covers your arms. You look up towards his helmet, opening and closing your mouth several times in an attempt to speak, but he’s now pulling the slack of the cloak over your lap, around the child you hold. You suck in a breath when he leans close enough you smell cold forest and clean skin, and swallow. “You’re shivering.”

The tone of his voice is firm and gentle, requiring an honest answer but overwhelmed with concern. You feel guilty that he would worry over you for something so banal, leaning back into the swath of black material and the warmth it still holds from his own body. 

“Yes, I-I’m sorry,” you say quickly, lowering your voice when the child’s breathing begins to even out. You look down at the sleeping infant, tracing his cheek with a fingertip. You speak to him and yourself. “I’m fine.”

The Mandalorian hesitates, his gloved fingers tapping restlessly against his leg. He floats between you and the pilot’s chair before turning away with a sigh, nodding once. “We’ll be landing soon,” he murmurs, and you watch him disappear once more into the pilot’s chair. 

Canto Bight is unlike anything you had ever experienced. No city on the few planets you have visited shines as brightly as this one, and as you follow alongside the Mandalorian, you feel an intense, overwhelming surge of helplessness. The sounds and smells are clean, thanks to the sea breeze blowing from off the coast, and you can taste the salt and sand in the air as you both leave the hangar behind you. The child floats near your side in his pram, his big ears fluttering curiously as he looks out at everything. 

Coming to a set of stairs that ascend up into the piazza, full of sparkling fountains and tourists laughing drunkenly, you bite your lip and lift the hem of your dress. With no railing, you reach out unsteadily and grasp the Mandalorian’s arm, and he stands still immediately until you are beside him.

“Alright?” he asks, voice gentle. You nod, unconvincing as you lean into him closer, and you are thankful when he holds his arm steady and sure for you the rest of the walk. The pram floats diligently between you both, just in front so he can see it at all times, and you smile when you can hear the baby cooing with delight at all the sights. Crossing the piazza, your eyes are drawn to a large, glowing structure near the top center of the city.

“What is that?” you ask softly, patting his arm just above his vambrace. Neither of you break your stride, which you notice he keeps measured with yours.

The Mandalorian glances in the direction your head tilts. “The Coruscant Casino.”

You frown, listening to all the people around you laughing and talking with such joy and relish. There is something unsettling to you, the idea of taking money and just throwing it away. Perhaps it is because you have never had money of your own, property of your own until now, but the thought makes you sick to your stomach. 

You’re grateful the Mandalorian doesn’t seem intent on going inside, leading you through the city to a more reserved part of town that overlooks the water. You can hear the waves crashing somewhere below, and the thunderous noises of tourists having fun seem farther away. A spacious building, glowing with beautiful electric lanterns that light up the environment for you, is his destination. The windows and doors are open, and you can hear the sounds of people chatting, dining, and drinking. Inside, there is music, a man’s sweet voice accompanied by some string instrument. It seems almost out of place in the ostentatious city, more humble and rustic, but you feel yourself relax as you follow the Mandalorian to a counter. When he begins asking for a room, you realize you’re in a hotel.

The child tugs on your dress, leaning up from the mouth of his pram, and you’re distracted from the Mandalorian speaking quietly with the male at the counter. You turn, smiling down at him and cupping his cheek. 

“Oh! What an adorable baby!”

A young female, who you think must be a Togruta from the blurring of colors and shapes around her face, bounces over to stand beside you, leaning forward with both hands on her knees. A shiny, silver servant droid stands just beside her, inclining its head down and reflecting the light. The child looks up with large round eyes, blinking before grinning with all of his teeth, much to the Togruta’s delight.

“Oh, look! He likes me!” she giggles, clapping her hands.

You can’t help your own smile, a warmth of pride filling your breast when you tell her, “He’s just had another tooth come in. I think he wants to show off for you.”

“Oh, oh! May I hold him?” she asks, and you think you can almost see her beaming with hope. You’re just about to nod when the pram’s mouth shuts with a snap, and you both jump in surprise.

“No.” 

You look questioningly at the Mandalorian, who’s finger hovers over his vambrace controls and is now facing you and the young female. He gives a subtle swipe of his arm, and the pram floats behind you, drawing your gaze curiously. The girl seems to shrink in his presence and bobs her head.

“O-oh. Okay-”

“Let’s go.” 

His hand at the small of your back directs you away from the Togruta and her droid, and you frown as you let him lead you, the sudden change in his demeanor making your skin itch. Your arm slips through his when you begin ascending polished wooden stairs, though you feel particularly dispirited in doing so. 

“That wasn’t very polite,” you finally say, not paying much attention to the hallways of hotel rooms you pass. “She was so sweet. What was the harm-?”

He stops abruptly, and you almost run into him before he opens a door at the far end of the hall with a key card. He steps back, waving his arm so the pram floats in, and when you frown deeper, he nods his head. “Go on.”

You can’t help the slight huff, passing him and putting your hand on the wall. He closes the door behind you, fiddling with the security pad while you step inside. You bump into a dresser, flushing scarlet as you put your hands out, patting and feeling around. There is a small glass fireplace against the wall, and one glowing mineral salt lamp in the far corner, and neither light source does anything to help you see. You stumble into a chair and a low table, thoroughly frustrated by the time your hands feel the smooth shell of the pram and open it.

The baby’s ears are laying flat in the most doleful expression, blinking up at you in the dark, and you lift him quietly up into your arms, murmuring softly to him. “There now, is that better?”

He nuzzles your shoulder, and you realize that the Mandalorian has not said anything since you entered the room. Turning, you find him grasping the back of the chair you hit with your hip, and you take a deep breath. It’s as if his entire demeanor was swallowed up by the darkest cloud.

“Did...Did I do something wrong?” you ask, despising the absolute timidity that clutches your chest. You hadn’t felt this anxious uncertainty since you were property. The thought of him being angry with you, upset with you, makes your stomach curdle.

There was a short pause before you could hear him sigh through the modulator. “No.” There is a longer pause before you hear the strain of leather where his gloves tighten over the back of the chair. “Yes.”

You sink into the opposite chair, afraid that if you don’t, your knees might buckle under the weight of his glare. For he is glaring, but you don’t know if it’s at you. You can feel it, and you wonder if his bounties feel this before he throws them into the carbonite freezer. 

He releases the chair and steps up beside it, tapping his fingers against the curaisse on his thigh. “You know that the Empire is looking for him,” he says quietly, moving to crouch in front of you. You frown gently, holding the baby’s hand and noticing his ears have sunk again, his little feet kicking slowly where he sits on your lap. “We can’t trust anyone we don’t know.”

“She was a child,” you mutter, annoyance flaring.

“She was not the reason to be cautious!” 

His voice raises so much you recoil, the effect like a whip against your face. He hesitates, then, seeing you flinch, and he drops his head forward with a bone-deep sigh. “You told me once to never stop worrying for him,” he finally mutters. “And I haven’t. I think about it all the time, and so should you.”

Something clicks, the way his tone mirrors something else he said to you by the fire, when his helmet caressed your cheek like a kiss. “The droid,” you murmur, sitting forward. “You were-it was the droid, wasn’t it?” When you are met with cold silence, your thoughts begin to pick up steam, and you shake your head, looking down. “Y-You stopped the droids at the medical center from helping me, too, didn’t you? And you didn’t want Peli’s droids working on the ship.”

He stands up, then, crossing the room to the case he’d set down. You can hear the latches he opens with deft fingers, the whisper of steel against steel familiar to you as he puts his weapons together. You stand up, setting the baby back in his pram, despite his small whimpers to be picked back up. You bump into the table again, ignoring the shooting pain in your leg as you follow the sounds he makes. He ignores you, screwing something onto the tip of his blaster, and you scowl, moving around the table so you face him. You nearly collide with it so hard you fall, but you continue holding your head up. 

“We can’t live our lives trusting no one, Mandalorian.”

“I trust you to be smart,” he snaps, and you feel a flush of some deep rooted shame. Your hands curl into fists at your sides. “To know that a girl can wield a knife just as easily as a grown man, and that a droid is only beholden to its master.”

Your mouth is dry, and you feel tears prick your eyes. You turn your head away, heart pounding like a drum against your breast. The silence in the room is tense, and you can’t think of a way to alleviate it, so you leave him to his work, trying to move back to your seat near the child. You bump into the side of the bed, baring your teeth in frustration at the unfamiliar surroundings that seem only to wish you to trip. There’s a dull pain in your leg from hitting the table before, and you give yourself a wide berth when you finally sink into the chair, rubbing your face.

The child whimpers, sensing the turbulent emotions running through the room, and he reaches his tiny hands up toward you. Your heart sinks pitifully in your chest, knowing, on some level, that the Mandalorian was right to be cautious. The Empire wanted to hurt this little one, and you knew the bounty hunter had even lost brothers and sisters trying to protect him.

And if something happened to the child because of your poor judgment...

Leaning forward, you lift the baby out of the pram, bringing him to your chest so he can nuzzle your shoulder comfortingly. You stroke his back, taking a deep breath to try and soothe his worries, as well as your own.

“You must know we can’t protect him without the help of others,” you finally say, turning your head towards the dark shadow the Mandalorian makes. “Even you need help.”

He seems to go still, like a predator before sinking its teeth into its prey, and you feel his visor turn towards you. “I will always protect him.”

“I know. You told me,” you murmur, wanting nothing more than to touch him, then. You have the sudden desire to hold his hand, a foreign want you had never experienced before you came to know him. To let him know that he could still trust you, to let him know he was not alone in caring for the precious soul in your arms. “No matter the cost.”

His helmet dips, and you can hear him whisper, “This is the way.”

Your eyes fall shut, letting your head fall back against the plush seat, and you try to calm your racing heart. There is no real resolution to this, no true closure, because you won’t give him the acceptance of not trusting anyone. After all, he decided to trust you. He clearly trusts Kuiil. You wonder who else he has opened up to, who else he has let in. You want to finish what you have both started, but you don’t want him leaving at odds with you, either.

There’s a pleasant warmth where the child lays against you, emanating from his tiny hand grasping the collar of your dress, and soon you feel tranquil once again, listening to the fire and the soft breathing of the baby.

A smooth, leather gloved finger traces your cheek, and you open your eyes to find the Mandalorian standing beside you, the fire reflecting off of his helmet. You watch him sink to both knees, his arm draping over your lap to stroke the child’s brow. 

“I am sorry for...raising my voice,” he whispers, and tears pearl in your eyes, falling over your cheeks with such ease and quickness, it’s embarrassing. His hand shakes and his voice strangles at the sight. “P-Please, don’t cry-”

You come together like two moons orbiting the same planet, your arm slipping over his neck to hug yourself against the beskar that’s been warmed by the fire. The child’s ears perk upward, tickling your cheek, and you sniffle when you feel the Mandalorian’s strong arms slip around you, pulling you to stand up in a firm embrace.

His heart pounds so hard, you can feel it through the beskar, and you shut your eyes against more salt gathering beneath your lashes. Perhaps he wears his armor to keep himself from tumbling, falling apart at your feet. Perhaps you are stronger than him, you think, because you don’t need it.

Neither of you make an effort to pull away, and you sigh softly when you inhale the clean, cool scent of him beneath the fabric of his shoulder. Your fingers rest on the back of his neck, just below the edge of his helmet, and when they press just firmly enough to keep him close, you think he melts against you a little more.

“I’ll be gone tonight,” he finally says, subdued and tamed. You nod, eyes still closed and too comfortable to be bothered to move. “Please...stay here,” he chokes, his hands becoming tighter at the small of your back. “If anything were to happen to-to him, or to-”

“I’m not going anywhere,” you murmur, lifting your face to look up at his visor. He sighs deeply, and you can feel his relief as he presses his helmet gently against your brow. A small tug lifts your lips into a smile, and you add quietly, “Though I think I’m in just as much danger in this room as I would be outside.”

The Mandalorian lifts his head at that, tilting his head to look at you as you set the child down to toddle about freely. You smooth your dress, frowning gently as you try to squint hard to see the furniture lying in wait to tangle your feet up. It had taken you nearly a week just to acquaint yourself with the hull of the Razor Crest, and the following months living aboard the ship are the only reason why you can safely navigate yourself around. 

And you still stumble every now and then.

“What can I do?” asks the bounty hunter, shifting his weight restlessly. You know he is ready to be on his way, securing his job by finding his target. You’d seen him fidget like this a few times just before he would leave the Razor Crest, but he sounds genuinely curious.

And his offer to help is tempting. You don’t want to wallow or be useless, and you know if you’re familiar with your surroundings, it will be more enjoyable for everyone. “Walk me around the room,” you say, more as a question than a statement.

There’s fabric shifting, and you recognize the pull of leather as him removing his gloves. When his hand cups your elbow, his skin is warm and smooth, and you feel a pleasant tightness in your belly. He doesn’t direct, pull, or push you, instead letting you move around yourself and only stopping or speaking when you nearly collide with a piece of furniture.

The child sees you and the Mandalorian swaying this way and that way around the room, and he decides it must be some kind of game he’d like to be a part of. He toddles over and hugs the bounty hunter’s boot, giggling when he sits atop of it and takes a ride like it's his own personal speeder bike. 

“Are there more lights?” you ask, wrinkling your nose at the glowing mineral lamp that gives off an aquatic silvery blue hue that does absolutely nothing for your vision.

“No.” The Mandalorian follows you in an awkward shuffle as you feel the outline of the bed.

“I see.”

“Do you?”

Your mouth drops open, slowly turning around to face him before you both burst into laughter. Your hand hits him between his pauldron and vambrace, a weak slap that only makes him laugh louder from the belly. 

“How dare you!” you laugh, your cheeks aching from joy. “I thought you were a man of honor.”

His hand catches yours when you go to push at him, squeezing your fingers gently. “How can I make it up to you?” he asks, and you both grow still at the tenderness in his voice. He seems surprised by it himself, and you feel your heart tumble in your breast. 

Your fingers curl over his hand, biting your lip on a smile. “Come back safe.”

The Mandalorian watches you, tilting his head before giving your fingers one last squeeze. He lets you go to reach the baby, who still clings to his boot, babbling and drooling happily, and you watch as he lifts the child up in his arms. They share their own little brow touch, and the baby seems to expect it, his little hand patting the side of the helmet.

“Why do you do that?” you ask softly, sitting on the edge of the bed with care.

“Do what?” he asks, turning and setting the child beside you on the bed. The little one immediately starts tumbling and crawling over the plush pillows. 

“With your helmet,” you say, tapping your forehead with your fingertips. 

The Mandalorian bypasses you to pick up his pulse rifle and the modified blaster from the table. “Don’t know what you mean,” he says. You open your mouth to clarify, but he breezes right past it. “I’ll have something sent up for you and the child to eat.”

“T-Thank you.” 

He nods, turning and moving towards the door. His footsteps are so quick that you almost fall in your haste to stand up from the bed to follow. 

“Wait!” 

He freezes, buying you a few extra moments to shuffle to the table before walking over to him, stiff and cautious not to run into any of the furniture. You only have a vague picture in your mind of everything, and it is shaky at best. That doesn’t stop you from bringing him his gloves from where he abandoned them, and you wear a small smirk as you take his hand and fit the leather over his fingers.

“In such a hurry to leave us?” you tease, using your thumbs against his palms to fit the glove as snugly as you can before moving to the second. His hands remain pliable for you as you secure the leather over his skin, and a strange compulsion takes you to...to put your lips to it. The thought steals your breath, and instead you take both his hands in yours and force yourself to smile. “There.”

When you beam up at the man made of beskar, you realize he isn’t breathing. You blink, sightless eyes drifting just off center of his visor. You part your lips to ask if he’s alright, but your words fall when he lifts his hand to cup your cheek, leather clad thumb brushing over the soft flesh of your lips. For a moment, for one suspended silent second, you think he might drop his rifle and stay with you.

For a solitary secondary moment, you almost ask him to.

But then he’s gone.


	2. Starbirds

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You're caught in the crossfire of one of the Mandalorian's bounties, and it triggers some consequences.

For a moment, shooting straight up in bed with a racing heart, you don’t know what it is that has woken you up. Your hand moves across the velvety sheets beside you, feeling nothing but cool, empty space, and you let out a deep breath. Glancing to the side, you can make out the slight shape of the baby’s floating pram, and after another moment of listening, you hear his quiet snores. 

The child had been hard to soothe just hours before. Usually, he is easy to calm to sleep, but perhaps it was the effect of so many new sights and sounds that had kept him awake. You didn’t want to think that your brief argument with the Mandalorian had upset him, and you swallow the idea down with guilt. He’s incredibly sensitive to how you and the bounty hunter act, you’ve found. In fact, on more than one occasion, you suspect he may even take after you both. 

Rising up from the bed, you inch your way carefully to the pram, finding your own solace when you can see him sleeping quietly beneath several warm layers. You gently arrange his blanket to make sure his ears won’t get cold before you press the button to close the shutters. You don’t want to chance anything waking him up after it took him so long to find peace. 

Then, there’s a roar that shakes the floor beneath your feet, and you practically jump out of your skin. It takes you a moment, past the pounding of your heart, to realize what you’re hearing is raucous, celebratory cheering from downstairs. 

It is impossible to tell the time, but you know from the weak moonlight coming from the windows that it is still late-or perhaps early, too early to be dawn. You don’t feel as if you’ve gotten enough rest, and when another wave of shouts and jeers rumble beneath you, you scowl and curl your fingers. What in all the stars could possibly warrant  _ that _ ?

It only takes a moment to grab your dress where you’d folded it carefully in the chair near the fire, stubbing your toe on the way as you stomp about. It reminds you to step into your boots, though you have to fight with your dress after first putting it on backwards. 

The Mandalorian left you the key card on the table, and you take it with a firm grasp, locking the door behind you. You hate the idea of leaving the child alone, but behind two locked doors, you know no one will get in, short of burning a hole in the door. If anything, you consider he is more likely to break out than anyone would be to break in, and you stuff the card in your pocket.

Gripping the wall, you lean your balance for stability as you take the steps one at a time downstairs, and you can hear the noise growing louder now. It nearly makes your teeth rattle, but you can discern it better. People, boisterous and feral, shout and slam their hands against tables in applause of  _ something _ , and it makes you want to grind your teeth because you cannot imagine anything is more important than your little one getting a good night’s sleep.

The front of the hotel is empty, but you follow the cacophony across the lobby and down another short flight of stairs into an adjacent cantina. There is a large crowd gathered around several tables, but you can’t make out anything over the tall statures of aliens and humans, alike. Stepping up to the bar, you slide onto one of the stools, peering across the room at the crowd that is bellowing like they’re watching some kind of race.

A service droid stops abruptly in front of you, drawing your attention. “How can I help?”

“Um...may I have some water, please?” you ask quietly, distracted when the crowd in the corner starts screaming again, some with cheers and others in anger. “What is going on over there?” 

The droid dispenses water from the faucet into a polished glass before setting it in front of you. “I believe they are gambling.”

“Oh.” You drink deeply from the glass, frowning in thought. Now that you were here, unable to even begin counting how many people there are. “Do you think you could...try and disperse them? Some people in the hotel are trying to sleep.”

The droid looks at you before turning its body away. “Not while they spend money in the establishment.” 

Huffing, you finish your water and stand up, deciding to go back to bed and hope for the best when half the crowd begins to cheer. This time, you can make out clearly what they’re saying.

“Mando! Mando!”

Your mouth drops open, and you don’t even feel in control of your movements as you push yourself up, using the bar to lean on as you squeeze around the edge of the crowd. You know the odds of there being more than one Mandalorian in this town aren’t worth the gamble, and you grit your teeth in anticipation. It’s impossible to clearly make out exactly what’s going on, but you can’t miss the gleam of the beskar leaning over one of the bar tables.

The Mandalorian is locked in a strength contest with a large Keshiri male that must have two heads worth of height on him. One bicep alone seemed to be as thick as your own waist, but that doesn’t stop the Mandalorian from slamming his opponent’s arm down with irrefutable brute force. The crowd gathered behind the bounty hunter thunders in applause, and you wince at the volume when they beat the tables and cheer. 

A Neimoidian distributes credits and various monies to that side of the crowd, and you shoulder your way through the greedy bodies. You had never felt so...so irritated! Shouldn’t he be working? If the child woke up because of this, you would make sure to give him an earful. 

You put your hand on the Mandalorian’s shoulder, just above his pauldron, and all your annoyance disappears in place of fear. Immediately, he grabs your wrist and spins around, nearly throwing you into the table with an artful, deadly precision, and you yelp when your lower back is thrown back against the table’s edge. 

Over all the noise, you can somehow hear him say your name, the modulator of his helmet doing nothing to disguise the raw shock and horror in his voice when he realizes he nearly broke you in half. He releases your wrist instantly, and without his support, you stumble back against the table, blinking and dazed. The surrounding crowd is so drunk on their winnings and deep in their cups that they haven’t noticed their prized fighter is otherwise engaged.

His gloved hands cup your elbows, bringing you forward beneath his arm and shoving his way through the rough and rowdy crowd until you’re both in the far corner of the bar. The empty water glass you’d left is gone.

“What the hell are you doing down here?” he demands, sitting you on a stool and taking your hand. You’re still too stunned by the way he’d reacted that you’re not sure how to respond, forgetting why exactly you  _ were _ there. He turns your wrist this way and that way, and you realize he’s making sure he didn’t hurt you.

“I-I woke up and you were still gone,” you say, your voice shamefully faint in the suffocating atmosphere. You blink up at him, trying to see his shape clearly even though you know you never will. “I heard all the noise, and-I was worried the child would wake up-”

“You’re trembling.” 

You suck in a breath, looking down at your hand that he holds. Your fingers are near vibrating, and you can feel the spasms in your sides now from having the breath knocked out of you. Being so close to such hunger in people is unfamiliar to you, but you know why your body reacts this way. It isn’t the first time.

“You scared me,” you whisper, dropping your chin down and feeling terrible to admit it. 

You had been spoiled, you think, having this Mandalorian all to yourself and growing soft and blind all over again, forgetting what he is. You have heard him fight, you have heard him raise his voice, and you have even been in the same space when he’s killed. 

But he’d never exerted such a force on you.

“I-I’m sorry-” His voice is broken, hoarse and high with desperation, and you lift your face to look at him just as the Neimoidian from before sidles up to clap him on the back. You see him tense, and you both jump when he tosses a rather large leather pouch on the bar beside you.

“Your share, Mando.”

You watch the male alien saunter away to rejoin his group, as if riding a high, and your gaze is brought back to the Mandalorian’s gloves. “What are you even doing down here?” you ask, mystified and lost in the cacophony. “I thought-I thought you had a job tonight.”

“I do,” he says quickly, tilting his helmet forward closer to your ear so you can hear him better. “I’m working now.”

He doesn’t speak to you of his bounty hunting at any great length beyond the story of acquiring the child, and you don’t tend to ask. It is his business, and if he wants you to know, you have always assumed he will share it with you on his own. But now, when a few drunken men walk past you both, and he takes a step closer to cage you in and puts himself between you and them, you think there’s a good reason for that. Maybe more than one.

“I’d not speak of it here where people can hear us,” he says in your ear, one hand still holding yours while the other touches your arm. You swallow hard and nod, biting your lip at the subtle hint to leave. You stand slowly from the stool, but you’re immediately shoved to the side by his hand near your arm. It happens so fast, you’re not certain what’s truly going on until you’re thrown behind him, back against the wall of the bar.

A large, hulking man has his hand at the back of the Mandalorian’s neck, slamming him forward against the bar, and you can hear the beskar crack the wood where his helmet lands.

For one moment when your heart nearly fails you, you almost cry his name out loud.

“You think you can just come into town and steal all our winnings,  _ Mando _ ?” the man sneers, and you hate the way the nickname is said with such a greasy tone. Your hands curl at your sides, and you take a step forward, only to freeze when you see the Mandalorian’s hand nearest you extended low, bidding you stay put. His helmet is pinned against the bar, but you can feel him looking at you.

“It’s not stealing when  _ you _ bet on the losing man.”

The hulking brute raises his fist, ready to slam it down against the beskar, but the Mandalorian is faster. He hooks his boot beneath the stool you had sat upon, grabbing it and swinging himself out to the side. His momentum brings the stool around with him, and it knocks the man flat on his back. You can hear the stone floor crack when the man’s head connects, and you flinch at the sound.

The bar that’s sober enough cheers in good spirits at the show, but the Mandalorian doesn’t stay to revel. He steps lightly over his fallen opponent, takes your hand after pocketing the pouch of money, and leads you quickly from the bar, up the stairs, and through the hotel with such a quick pace, you nearly have to run to keep up. Neither of you speak, the Mandalorian striding directly back to your room, and you focus on not losing your balance as you try not to fall behind. You wordlessly pass him the key card when you arrive at the door, and only when they shut and lock behind you do you both let out a shared sigh.

“How do you know he won’t try to follow us?” you whisper, one hand touching your forehead and the other rubbing your lower back. It still smarts where you’d been knocked into the table.

“Too drunk to see straight, much less run after hitting his head like that,” the Mandalorian groans, dropping into one of the chairs near the fireplace. You watch his figure recline back, legs stretched in front of him, and his chest rises and falls beneath his armor. His helmet rolls to the side, and you can see the light catch against the steel when his visor settles on you. “I told you to stay here.”

You press two fingers to the space between your eyebrows, feeling an awful headache forming. The noise from the bar has receded, you suspect now that their entertainment has made a hasty exit, and the room is far quieter than you remember it being before he left hours ago. You cross to sit opposite him, but you suddenly think better of it, noticing how he seems to favor his left side.

“Are you hurt?” you ask, softening your voice so you won’t wake the child. 

“Sore,” he mutters, and you move to his side, one hand tracing over the fabric of his shoulder near his pauldron. You hear his intake of breath just before your fingers slip beneath the heavy steel, releasing the catch that holds it in place. You move to set it in the chair opposite him, feeling emboldened when he doesn’t shy away, and you return to remove the other. 

“You don’t have to-”

“I want to,” you whisper, ignoring him as your fingers trace the cool steel.

The Mandalorian sighs again, but this time it is nothing but relief. You work quietly, removing his armor piece by piece until all that remains is his helmet, and you move back to his right side. “Is this from fighting?” you ask quietly, your fingers tracing over the broad shoulder beneath the fabric. It’s the arm he was using against the opponents downstairs. 

He grunts his assent, and you hold onto the chair as you move around the room, keeping your balance by leaning on the furniture that had frustrated you so much earlier. After digging through the few supplies you had brought with you, you return with a small tin canister. “You...you’ll need to take your shirt off, for me to apply this,” you say softly, and he’s so shadowed that you don’t see him grow still. You can only hear when he stops breathing.

“I can do it,” he rasps, but you can detect the wince in his voice.

“I can’t...see you, in here,” you murmur, exhaustion beginning to sweep over you. All the excitement had kept your mind reeling, but now, safe behind closed doors with a sleeping little one so near, you feel your body begin to tire. “And I won’t linger.”

The Mandalorian swallows audibly, before sitting forward slowly, muttering, “I need help.”

You nod and lean forward when he begins peeling his thick shirt up from his waist, beneath his belt, and the fabric moves over his skin like water. He’s hot beneath the layers, nearly burning to the touch, in your opinion, but you put that from your mind when he hisses trying to get his arm free.

“Careful!” you whisper, cradling his elbow in one hand while you work the shirt up over his shoulder until it’s bunched beneath his helmet on one side. You rely on your touch, now, the firelight too weak to help you. Your face begins to heat when you feel the outline of his bicep, firm and curved under your touch. You feel dips and grooves, small things that make you tilt your head as your fingers journey up to his shoulder. “What are these?”

There’s a tense pause when you open the canister, scooping out a generous amount of bacta infused analgesic cream. When it touches his skin, he hisses at the temperature, because it is quite chilly, but he soon relaxes as you begin rubbing it over his shoulder.

“Scars,” he finally says, sounding winded.

“Oh.”

There are more than you can count, and you suddenly feel very small and very breakable standing near this man made of beskar and devastation. You have scars of your own, but these... How could you ever forget this, now that you’ve felt the thin, mended skin of battles and kills? You swallow, fighting the mixed emotion that threatens to swallow you whole, and you smooth the cream over the swollen muscle cording his arm. After a moment, your fingers feel the heat where he’s agitated his shoulder the most, and you press gently only to freeze when he makes a soft, whimpering sound.

“Am I hurting you?”

“N-No…’s good.”

His voice is so faint now, so raspy with relief that your fingers vibrate with the desire to hear it more. You lick your lips and whisper, “Tell me if it’s too much.”

Then, you squeeze his shoulder between both of your palms, and the Mandalorian  _ moans _ . His back nearly arches out of the chair, and the only thing keeping him in his seat is your delicate hands rubbing his shoulder. There’s tension beneath your fingers, and you move in gentle motions that crest and draw over the firm muscle. 

By now, the cream has absorbed into his skin, but you find yourself loathe to stop. You want to keep touching him, likening the feeling to the gentle, intoxicating pull of wine. Your fingers slip beneath the dark fabric of his shirt, feeling more healed wounds and knitted skin along the way. When you can touch the back of his neck, you press your thumb hard, and he moans again, this time dropping his head forward so the lip of his helmet touches his chest. 

Your hands are no longer shaking when you draw him nearer to you, and you feel your breath escape when he suddenly wraps his good arm around your waist, pressing his helmet against the soft planes of your stomach and holding you there. He’s tall enough that his helmet rests just beneath the line of your bust, and you can comfortably drape your arms around his neck. 

“Your heart is beating so fast.” His voice is such a hoarse whisper that the vocoder almost doesn’t pick it up, but nothing can disguise the wonder and awe that he speaks with. The flat of his palm is warm against your waist, and you drift one hand to lay your fingers over his, the other keeping his helmet cradled against you. “Like a starbird.”

The corner of your mouth lifts because he sounds as if he’s drifting off to sleep, half folded in a chair with his shirt rucked around his neck. You’re afraid to move or speak, afraid he’ll spook and you’ll never be this close again. When he turns his head, he remains leaning against you and sighs, and you think he very well may be asleep already.

“C-Come on, you should lay down and rest your shoulder.” It takes an olympic effort to pry him away, both from your lack of desire to part and the fact he’s heavy as sin. He grumbles from under his helmet but stands up, letting you go as if you hadn’t just shared an intimate embrace. The fire catches his silhouette when he passes you, and you see the deep ochre skin of a well defined back before he pulls his shirt back down.

The blush in your face is cooled against the pillow when you slip into the bed, but the Mandalorian tilts his head down at you for a moment, standing near the edge. “I’d like this side,” he finally says, making you blink. You would’ve been shy, if he didn’t sound so opinionated on the matter.

“I’m sure the whole bed is comfortable,” you tease, but you shuffle over anyway. Your side is now nearer the window, farther from the fire, and you relax back with a little sigh. It’s a bigger and softer bed than the one on the Razor Crest, and you have more room to stretch.

“It’s closer to the door,” he sighs, a small puff of affectionate annoyance carrying over. You can just barely make out his shape against the darkness in the room. 

“So you can make a quick escape?” You’re smirking, but that falls as soon as he answers you smartly.

“So anyone who comes in has to go through me first.”

Your mouth goes dry as he settles beside you, more than a foot apart, and his words leave a bone-deep ache within you, hot and persistent. As tired as you are, the harrowing altercation in the bar comes with his confession, and you turn your face towards his shadow, resting your hands on top of your stomach.

“But...no one will get in, will they?” Your voice is a small thing in the dark, and you shiver when his deep baritone quietly falls over you like his cape so often does.

“No,  _ Cyare _ . I won’t let them.”

You shift a bit closer, wishing you could feel the warmth of his skin again. “That man was so angry with you. All over money?”

The Mandalorian-because even in this quiet, close darkness, saying his name is still too near a thing-turns his helmet to face you. “His name is Tycho Ivalice. He owes some powerful people money.” He pauses, seeming to consider something before adjusting so that one hand is pillowed beneath his head. “He and his brother operate a gambling scheme.”

You sit up on your side, cupping your chin as you listen to him speak. Your hair falls to the side, keeping a shadow over the pillow so you feel like you must be talking to an abyss. “Where is his brother?”

“Jix,” he names him, tapping his fingers where his hand is spread across his stomach. “Is in carbonite on the Crest. That’s where I was before I came back here. I found him first.”

Your eyebrows go up. “So you’re getting both of them? Why...why not just grab him after he tried to hurt you tonight?” you ask, a gentle frown working its way onto your face.

“I’d just gained the trust of a room full of criminals. I don’t think they’d look kindly on me taking in one of their own,” he chuckles tiredly. You smile a little then, slowly maneuvering yourself so you lay on your tummy and hug your arms beneath your pillow.

A yawn comes muffled against the fabric when you snuggle down, and you mumble, “You against all of them? I’d take those odds.”

He grumbles under his breath, “Not when I’m getting old. It’s catching up to me.”

“Maybe we’re both starbirds,” you mutter, your breathing evening out as you drift closer and closer to dreams. “Getting stronger when they seem to be their weakest.”

You can hear him turn his head, the metal rustling the fabric of his pillow. “Go to sleep now,  _ Mesh’la _ ,” he whispers, and you do, with the feeling of gentle fingers stroking your hair. 

When you wake up again, you’re sure this time that it’s morning because the sunlight is streaming through the windows enough for you to make out the rise and fall of the Mandalorian’s chest. You watch the profile of the shining beskar helmet for a few moments before two green petal shaped ears perk up from behind it. 

The child sits upon his father’s pillow, big eyes round with excitement, and you see the moment he raises his two little hands high in the air to slap the visor. 

“Oh, no you don’t!”

You launch yourself up, desperate to grab the baby before he can play his father’s helmet like a drum, and in your haste, you fall across the Mandalorian with a gentle  _ oof _ . You lift the child up, who squirms and giggles happily at being given the attention he seeks, and you feel two warm hands cupping the curve of your waist. 

“You both wake up too early,” he growls, half asleep and raspy with annoyance. You blush, gently shifting backward, but he arrests you where you lay, half on his chest and sinking with guilt. 

“Sorry,” you whisper, but you go still when you feel his fingers squeeze just a little on the soft flesh of your hip. You draw the child near to your body, turning your face down to the Mandalorian with a little smile when the baby coos and wiggles his feet. The bounty hunter raises a hand, offering a finger, which the child reaches for with his own. 

“Good morning,  _ verd’ika _ ,” his deep baritone rumbles.

The child babbles joyfully, and you slide gently away from the Mandalorian, scooting to the edge of the bed as his hands fall back to the mattress. “He’ll be hungry. Please, sleep some more,” you tell him, crossing the room with a little more confidence in the morning sunlight. You hear a wordless grumble, and it only takes a few moments for the warrior to slip right back into unconsciousness.

There is just enough bantha milk for a small breakfast for the baby, but you know he’ll need to eat more sooner rather than later. While he’s busy drinking and wiggling his feet on the floor, you take a clean change of clothes and move into the refresher. You take time to splash cold water on your face, brush out your hair, and change into the light, billowy dress you’d finished before you landed on Cantonica. It was thinner than your others, perfect for the high sun of the desert, and you decide you’ll buy some new shoes with your share of the Mandalorian’s earnings while you are out getting food.

When you step back into the room, the child is struggling to climb up onto the bed, and you sigh quietly, picking him up before he can try to assault his father once again. You move him back near the fire and retrieve the paper and pencils you’d bought on Quanera. You congratulate yourself on knowing he’d need some kind of activity, and he’s quickly distracted when you take one of the drawing implements. You draw a long arc over the page, and immediately, he begins picking different colors and biting his tongue in concentration to create the best squiggles in the galaxy.

It should be enough to keep him from bothering the sleeping bounty hunter for the time it’ll take you to visit the shops, you hope. You turn back to see the Mandalorian has shifted in his sleep, one arm slung out across where you’d slept, helmet shoved into his pillow. You lift the rumpled sheets up and tuck them around his waist, touching the hollow of his helmet where his cheek might be. Like this, peaceful and resting, he looks softer, even with his helmet still covering his face.

You gather your bag and a portion of the credits tucked in the leather pouch, and you quietly let the doors lock behind you. 

It’s midmorning by the time you’re walking down the rows of stores in Oldtown. Your eyes glance between the pavement, to make sure there are no cracks or dips that will make you trip, and the shops that line the coastal town. The streets aren’t very busy this time of day, since most of the tourists and visitors seem to enjoy their proclivities of the night life. You pause near a small shop that smells divine-all kinds of seasonings dusting the air, and you are about to turn to enter before you hear a female voice calling out to you.

“Young lady, you must come see what I have in store today!”

Tilting your head, you find the woman across the narrow paved street, her shop canopied by shimmering silk. A dressmaker, you think. You hesitate, and that’s when she knows she has your interest. 

“Come on now, don’t be shy.”

Biting your lip, you carefully cross the street, folding your hands self-consciously. “I’m just looking for the food vendors and-and a physician’s shop. Do you-?”

“Pfft!” The woman has a wide toothy grin, her silver hair coiffed above dusty skin and wide, burgundy painted lips. “Running errands on this beautiful morning? You deserve something nice.”

A blush blooms in the apples of your cheeks, and you shake your head demurely. “I-I don’t think so-”

“I have some new designs in. Why not come and try some on?” she asks, holding out a hand. You don’t make a move to touch her, keeping your hands folded in front of you. She pouts, and you can hear it in her voice. “Oh please? I’m so bored this early in the morning, and a pretty thing like you must feel so dreary in clothes like that.”

“I-I made this myself,” you tell her, frowning thoughtfully down at your dress. What’s wrong with your clothes? A self-conscious prickle in your stomach makes you shift, wondering if other people think the same thing of you.

“Oh,” she hums, her smile never flinching once. “And how very well it suits you! But wouldn’t you like to try something on with a little more flare?”

“I don’t tend to wear something because of how it looks,” you deadpan, hoping your pale eyes unnerve her like you know they do most people. You’d hoped she would be helpful, but you were beginning to feel irritated.

“Practical  _ and _ pretty! What a package you are,” she chuckles, stepping forward and slipping a hand around your elbow.

When she tugs you sharp, you recoil instantly, the sensation of being herded triggering a deep, visceral reaction. You feel every slave driver, owner, and master’s hand at the back of your neck when she touches you, and you dig your heels in to pull back, sensing someone else behind you. Perhaps she will bother them instead, and you can go back to looking for some fresh milk and herb baked bread for the baby. The very thought swells your heart with worry. 

“Please, I need to be on my way,” you tell her as sternly as you can, yanking your arm out of her grip only to stumble back into what felt like a brick wall of a man. 

“That’s a shame,” the woman sighs, equal amounts of disappointment and resignation in her voice. “I thought we could have some fun first.”

A large, rough hand clamps down on your shoulder, and another brings a cloth to your face. You drop your bag, shock forcing you to gather all the air you can into your lungs, and with it, a noxious fume that turns all the meager sight you own into darkness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What's the title of this story again?
> 
> Mando'a Translations:
> 
> Verd'ika - for a child, "little soldier"
> 
> Mesh'la - Beautiful
> 
> Cyare - Beloved
> 
> Starbird - a mythical phoenix; when it grows weak or dies, it is actually regenerating its power within a nova


	3. Bad Men

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Mandalorian finds you.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Everyone who sent a message, left a comment, shared, and liked this story has my heart. You can’t believe how much this has uplifted me, especially having some health problems the last few days. I appreciate each and every one of you!

It’s been days.

It’s been days since you breathed in the sleeping agent that knocked you out from under your own feet, leaving you with a throbbing headache. You overhear two men laughing about it, later, that you were carried right by the Canto Bight police. When they’d stopped to inquire, they were told you simply had too much to drink. That they were helping you home. 

It’s been days since you could feel your arms. The binders securing your wrists are enclosed around a metal pipe, and your arms are twisted so tight that they’re asleep within minutes. It stinks where you are, a musty, spicy odor that must be from animals, because you can hear them close by. You can’t move your legs, you can’t even stand up or walk. When they take you like an animal on a leash to relieve yourself, they laugh when you fall, and they continue to laugh when you try over and over to stand. 

It’s been days since you could open your eyes. Freedom has made you irreverent, giving you a confidence you never possessed before. When the man who had drugged you brings in a chair to sit, you glare as hard as you can, and he grins with wide, straight teeth. He has no hair and large, dark eyes that seem to reflect the light, even when there is none.

“You know where you’re at?”

“I’m blind.”

“Yes, and not stupid.” You lean away instinctively when he brings a hand close to your face, waving it in front of your line of sight. “Ah...so you  _ can _ see some things.” You scowl when he leans away, bracing his elbows on his knees and staring down at you like you are some kind of specimen. It makes your skin crawl, and you shift uncomfortably on the floor. He cocks his head to the side and demands, “How much are you worth?”

There’s a cold trickle of fear working it’s way down your back, and you feel sick to your stomach. He chuckles at whatever secrets your face betray, and you grimace. Of course, he’s a gambling man, after all. He can call your bluff, see your tells. 

“I know slaves enough to see the signs. Come on, now. Is it that low a price?” he laughs, and your hands flex behind you. When you say nothing, he grins with wide, white teeth. “I’ll guess, then. A few thousand credits? Your hands are soft, skin clear, hair long and... _ pretty _ .” Tears form in your eyes when he reaches forward to tilt your chin up, and you try to blink them away. They fall, and you can’t stand the tenderness in his touch. “How much did he buy you for?”

“I-It’s not like that,” you whisper, flinching when he laughs again, a barking, grating sound.

“No? A Mandalorian did it out of the kindness of his heart? Assuming he has one, it wouldn’t be yours. You’d know that if you were smarter.” He almost sounds sorry for you, letting your chin go. “You know who I am? He tell you?”

You blink the misty vision away, sniffing and looking down at your lap. “Tycho Ivalice, gambling ringleader. Wanted by...someone.” You frown, trying to recall the conversation you’d had with the Mandalorian, what he’d said. All you can remember is how soft his voice was, how he’d asked for the closer side of the bed. How he called you  _ Cyare _ , and made your heart ache.

Tilting his head, Tycho hums. “And my brother. Know where he is?”

_ In carbonite, on the Crest. _

“No.”

His hand connects with a solidity that you fear dislocates your jaw. Your ear rings, head spinning with a liquid imbalance that has you slumping to the side. The shock settles in, having gone for so many years without being struck, and you know holding your breath will only delay the inevitable. When you open your mouth, your lungs instinctively contract, forcing you to breathe. Heat courses through your neck and face, a throbbing, pulsing pain that leaves your vision pricked with black dots.

“I don’t like liars,” Tycho says after a moment, as if letting you gather your thoughts that he’d just slapped out of your still-ringing ear. “But we’ll come back to that.”

He did come back, every day, to ask the same questions.

_ Where is the ship you arrived on? _

_ Where is his brother? _

_ Who is the Mandalorian? _

You think you must have smiled at the last one, because he grows impatient, and powerful men who do not get their way are more dangerous than loaded weapons. You feel your eye bleeding when he strikes you for that, the hot, sticky mess painting your cheek and neck as it drips and stains your torn dress. The scent of dirty copper gags you, and you want to cry so  _ badly _ , but you know that will only make it worse. When your cheek puffs, the delicate skin swelling and shutting your eyes, you find some relief because it stops the bleeding. You don’t smile after that.

A small child visits you that night, no older than you had been when you’d gone blind. She uses the dirty hem of her dress, dipped in the water cup they’ve given you, to clean the dried blood away. You thank her before she disappears again, saying nothing. You think you can hear her crying somewhere nearby at night, and you wish more than anything to sleep. 

It’s been days since you’ve seen the child.  _ Your _ child, you think pitifully in the dark to yourself. The little one you’d come to give your whole heart to, with eyes as dark as ink and a tiny smile that makes you proud to take care of him, to be a source of his affection. You hope he doesn’t miss you, because you don’t want to be cause for his sadness. You desperately pray he is far from this damn city, from people like these who could hurt him. 

And you do pray.

Servants and slaves alike give up the hope of something higher, too tired or scared or sick to afford the luxury of dreams and thoughts that could save them. But you have kept your prayers close to your heart ever since you were small. Ever since you cowered beneath that old bed the stormtroopers dragged you out from under, making you look at your father with his dead eyes staring up and seeing nothing, you felt it was an act of defiance. You prayed for your lady when you heard the Moff strike her, and you prayed for that Moff to go far, far away. You prayed for the girls misused in the brothel near the cantina. 

You pray for the child, every night, that he would grow up happy and sweet and good.

You pray for the Mandalorian. You hope he assumes the worst-that you took money and left, rather than what truly happened. You think it might be better, because it would mean he’d move on sooner, and you don’t think this place is good for anyone. You pray for Din Djarin more than yourself, and when you allow yourself to think of his name, it keeps you as warm as his cloak.

On the third or fourth day, there’s a small boy who brings you moldy bread. You thank him after he reaches for your face and pushes the hair from your eyes, and he helps you eat without saying a word. On the fifth day, your jaw feels healed enough to dare to speak to the young girl, this time.

“Where am I?”

You hear her fear; it’s in her hesitation, in the way her knees knock together as she kneels beside you. Her small hand shakes when she tugs the torn shoulder of your gown up, for you were left indecent before by the cruel men who made you walk when you couldn’t feel your own feet.

“A stable,” she whispers. You frown, wincing at the pain it causes, and she shuffles closer. “The fathiers are noisy, it covers the sounds of people calling for help.”

You focus very hard on swallowing down the thick desperation threatening to send you into a panic. It would not serve you now. The desire to tug at the binders, as useless as it is, is strong, but you no longer feel your arms so you don’t even attempt it.

“What’s your name?” you whisper, leaning your head back against the metal pipe. You lick your lips, tasting sweat and blood and something foul. You can hear her shuffling beside you, and you imagine she draws her knees up to her chest, hugging herself. You did it, too, when you were her age and scared, wishing to make yourself small.

“Corde.” 

“You are very brave, Corde,” you whisper, feeling tears sting your eyes. Maker, it  _ hurts _ , it burns like fire, like that first time the sun left your eyes so scarred you couldn’t see. You try to blink through your swollen eyes. “I’m sorry you have to be here.”

She is quiet for a long time, and your sleep deprivation begins to find you. You’re almost nodding off when she tugs at your torn dress again. It won’t stay up. “Did you get sold, too?”

You push your head to the side, towards her, hoping your injured face doesn’t make her nervous. She seems so sweet, and lonely, and sad. “Once, a long time ago. Not this time.” You think of that woman’s voice, oily and inviting like a flower with three leaflets, the kind the child would be tempted to pick that you would never let him near. You swallow hard. “This time it-it was my fault.”

Corde frowns, and you can hear it when she looks up at you and says, “I don’t understand.”

You lick your cracked lip again before you answer her. “I...I trusted someone I shouldn’t have.”

_ I trust you to be smart. _

Stars, you want to scream, to lash out. He was right, he was right,  _ he was right _ …

“Bad men,” Corde whispers, and you feel a bubble of a laugh threaten to come out. You fight it down and simply nod, gritting your teeth. Bad men always find ways to hurt little girls.

The two of you sit in silence, and inch by inch, the child scoots closer until you feel her pressing against your side, leaning her head against your arm. The sound you make, a mangled whimper, escapes your lips before you can hold it in, and there is more salt stinging your eyes. “I-I don’t even know why I’m here,” you whimper, sniffling against the stink of animal. “It’s  _ wrong _ .”

Corde’s voice is so small, and you can feel how thin she is when she leans against you. Her voice trails off, though, and you can hear her fear again. “Will…?”

You try to shift from your cramped position, sighing deeply when it’s for nothing. “Will what, sweet girl?” you ask, angling your chin down toward her.

“Will...when the Mandalorian comes, will he take me and my brother with you?”

The question shakes you to your core. You can’t move, you can’t  _ breathe _ . Your mouth opens and closes, working on words that won’t come out. When you finally speak, your voice is hoarse. 

“What...what are you talking about?”

“Tycho said it,” Corde whispers, and you can tell she’s got one hand beside her mouth to muffle her noise as she shares her secret. “He said there’s a Mandalorian coming for you.”

The questions Tycho asks you now make sense. It was a trap, and you were the bait. You feel even more ashamed than before, even more foolish than a stupid no-named girl from the outer rim. At least someone else in that cantina would’ve been smarter, you think. He could have picked anyone. But he chose you, and he chose  _ wrong _ .

“The Mandalorian isn’t coming.” 

Even if you wanted him to, it had been days.

Saying it out loud doesn’t hurt as much as you thought it would. It’s simple, an understanding you had known from the beginning that the man had told you himself. He would protect his child at all costs-no matter the cost. You like to think some part of him held affection for you. But he’d trusted you, trusted you to be smart, and look where you are now. 

You wonder how this gambler had formed such a half-brained idea.

“Oh.” 

You detest how heartbroken she sounds, because you have nothing to offer her by way of comfort. You wish you could tell her that you would take her with you, that you would protect her, but how could you say such a thing when you can’t even protect yourself? 

Children know better, and they know the lies of people who swear false promises. If you could be anything for her, you would be someone who would at least tell her the truth.

You learn the little boy is Corde’s brother, Venka. He doesn’t speak at all. Corde tells you he hasn’t spoken since they were sold. They sleep in the empty stall beside yours, and they’re waiting to be moved where other child workers are kept. When Venka brings you a wet cloth to press to your swollen eyes, you finally cry in peace, the salt washing away with the dirty water. He wipes your face with gentle, pudgy hands, and you whisper your thankfulness. He hugs you around your neck, and you have never, in your life, wished to harm another person so much as you do the men who keep these children locked in the dark.

The privilege, however, is not yours.

It happens near midnight of the fifth day after you were taken, and a jolt goes through you, waking you from the half-sleeping slump. The two children are nestled close to the spare warmth of your body, the girl laying against your side and the boy with his head in your lap. You’re unsure why they were allowed to remain with you. Usually they’re forced into their own stall, but you soon realize the door to your paddock is open as if someone forgot to shut it. Both children are awoken by the sharp, short burst of gunfire that sounds like it’s echoing just outside the building.

Your heart is beating like a bird losing feathers, mad to get out, and Corde sucks in a breath. “It’s him, isn’t it?” she whispers, the hope in her voice prettier than a song.

“Get behind me,” you tell them, voice harsh with your own fear trapped in your throat, threatening to climb out. You didn’t want to hope it was him, wishing for nothing but for him to take his son and run far away from this foul city. But you feel a rush of relief against your will, and stars,  _ of course _ it’s him. 

The paddock door slams when a body hits it, and you tense when a mass of footsteps storm right up to you. A familiar odor of stale beer and unwashed skin hits your nose, and Tycho has your binders off before you can wonder what he’s doing. Tiny hands grab at your dress, and your arms fall uselessly, weak, in front of them.

“Up we go,” Tycho rumbles, and Corde cries out as you're dragged onto your feet. Is this the last thing you’re going to see? Is this some kind of mercy kill before he’ll give the Mandalorian the satisfaction of finding you?

“I-It’s okay,” you whisper to the two cowering children, shaking at the idea of being led away to be silenced. You wonder if your father knew, before they beat him to stillness, that he would die. Perhaps that’s why those lies people tell children come pouring out of you. “It will be alright, I promise-” 

When Venka won’t let go, Tycho’s boot reels back and lands squarely, knocking him into his sister, and all three of you are screaming, trying to fight him. Stumbling on legs that you can’t feel, like a newborn foal, you fall as he drags you by the back of the neck, and cry, “D-Don’t hurt them!”

There’s a brighter light where he drags you from the stall, but you don’t have time to try and open your eyes before his robust arm, thick with muscle, traps your neck against the front of his chest, forcing you to try and balance on your unsteady feet. Everything is a swath of blurred shadows, a dim, running painting of mangled shapes that you have no way of discerning, and all the blood rushing to your limbs leaves you breathless. You are not unlike a rag doll that’s been abused, dizzy and lightheaded, and you keep your swollen eyes closed, focusing on staying conscious. 

“Not so trigger happy now, Mando?” Tycho bellows, and you can hear the power of his deep voice all the way into his chest. It rattles your bones, and you suck in a breath when his arm tightens around your neck. “I’ll take my money back, now. And an apology.”

The Mandalorian’s shape, familiar even in your disabled vision, even from between aching, pained squints of your eyes, stands still as stone, a gun still smoking held in his hand. There are bodies on the floor, blood dripping from one of his gloves. His voice, though, is like thunder, quiet and rolling and cresting deep from within, and hearing him is like an allowance you don’t deserve. “I’m not negotiating with you,” the forbidding baritone bites out. He is raspy with anger, and severe enough to make you fear what he is capable of. 

“No?” 

Tycho’s arm tightens, and tightens, and  _ tightens _ , drawing you back until the tips of your toes barely brush the floor, and your voice breaks on a whimper for air. Your hands shake and scratch at the thick, corded muscle of his forearm, but you might as well be an insect he can’t be bothered to swat away.

And nothing happens.

You wonder, briefly in your dazed, slowly slipping mind, if you die here, what will become of the two children in the stall. You hope someone is kind to them, and does not fail them like you have.

“S-Stop. Stop it.”

Tycho’s arm loosens, and you gasp in the dirty, stinking air of the stable, gagging on it as he allows you just an inch or so of leverage. “Ready to negotiate now?” he asks, giving you a small shake in his hold. You feel your teeth rattle, your body swaying as if drunk.

There’s no sound, no movement for a moment until you hear a loud metallic  **clunk** hit the ground. 

“Good. Now put your blaster down, and kick it over to one of my men.” 

_ Don’t do it. Please don’t give him that. _

The clatter of steel on the concrete floor follows bluntly, and you hear the rattling scrape when it’s sent skittering across the ground. A man nearby picks it up, checking the chamber and release before aiming it at the Mandalorian. Your heart grows hot with indignant anger in your breast. This-this animal didn’t deserve to be cowered to, not worthy of anyone’s deference. Certainly not by the Mandalorian.

Tycho releases you and in the same, abrupt motion, kicks your feet out from under you so that you land hard on the floor. The use of your legs and arms are still shaky, and your whole body spasms with pain. Beskar hits the ground when the Mandalorian kneels over you, and you’ve never felt so weak, so pitiful when he pulls you up against his blessedly cool chest plate.

Desperate, leather clad hands cradle you with urgency, and he leans you back against his leg, propping you up so your breath fogs the shine of his armor as you inhale the scent of clean skin and cool woods. His helmet kisses your brow, and you can hear, now that he’s so close, how labored his breathing is, how tight and tense his arms are while he rocks you. His whole body shakes like a vibroblade, like the electricity before the crack of lighting, and you have never felt safer. 

You smile, a small, sad thing that doesn’t meet your eyes. “You came.”

A tiny, pathetic sound slips from beneath the lip of his helmet, and one of his gloves cups the side of your face, his thumb pressing just beneath the bruised and reddened skin of your eye. You can’t stop yourself from leaning into the cool leather, biting your cracked lip with relief, but a chuckle from somewhere behind you makes both of you go still as stone.

You hear the click of a blaster being aimed, and you know it isn’t trained on the impressively armored man who holds you in his arms.

“I’ve changed my mind,” Tycho says, towering above where the Mandalorian stays kneeling over you, and forcing the bounty hunter to look up with an air of utter hatred. You have never felt him so  _ angry _ , so glacial and still. “If you both want to leave, I’ll need something else. Let’s call it interest for the disrespect you showed me and my brother.” 

You press your cheek to his chest plate, your fingers curling into the fabric at his waist. If you were going to die with a gun to your head, at least you won’t be alone, and you won’t be without this man, you decide. It is more than you hoped for, even if the way he breathes, like a wild animal, makes you wish to comfort him.

There’s a nigh imperceptible tilt of the Mandalorian’s helmet, and Tycho smiles and says, “I want your helmet.”

Your fingers dig into his waist with desperation, nails biting into the skin, and you suddenly can’t be close enough, can’t stop what’s happening. “N-No,” you whimper, struggling against the Mandalorian’s firm hold, trying to clamber to your feet. “You can’t do that-!”

“I’m no longer negotiating,” Tycho growls, leveling his blaster’s aim at the crown of your hair. 

“Stop, please-” he chokes out, arresting you so tightly against his chest, you can’t move. You want to fight him, you want to shake this dear man under the steel because he shouldn’t sound like that, like a ruin. He should be brave, no matter the cost. “I-I’ll do it.”

“No!” Your entire body is a force to be reckoned with, adrenaline dumping into your system, but the Mandalorian traps you around the middle, locking his arms around you so you’re pinned to his chest. You turn your face into his neck, tears forming in your eyes. “No, y-you can’t-!”

Two men move to flank the bounty hunter, and you feel him tense, his entire body coiled like a spring ready to snap. That is what you expect of him, the urge and hunger to fight. Your breathing is so heavy, your mind so alight with passion that your entire frame hums. 

“I want her to do it.”

“ _ I will not _ !” you shriek, something feral and foaming bursting from your chest when you wrench against him. Everything begins to flicker before your eyes, the fireside touches, the hand stroking your hair by the stream, the arm that has held and supported you over worlds. He is stronger than you, but he doesn’t seem interested in seeking to detain you as much as he seeks to keep you from hurting yourself against the beskar covering his body.

“ _ Cyare _ ,” his deep baritone rumbles against your ear, too low for anyone else to hear. “Trust me.”

You go still, your arms slowly circling his waist and tucking your cheek against his chest plate. His heartbeat is like a war drum beneath the armor, and you bite your lip when you feel his arms slowly release you. You keep your eyes closed, your heart squeezing in Tycho’s fist as he and his men begin to chuckle at such a great warrior defeatedly drawing his hands down to his belt while you lift yours to cradle his helmet. Your lip trembles, fingers smoothing over the beskar warmed by your own skin, and then-

A clap of thunder, followed by an overwhelming flash, and the Mandalorian throws you to the side, rolling you beneath him just as the flash grenade he’d detonated sends everyone into a panic. Blasters suddenly go off in every direction, and you’re thankful when the Mandalorian crouches over you because you aren’t sure which way is up. His leather glove brushes your cheek, and you can’t hear what he says, but he disappears from your line of sight. There are muffled shouts, screaming, and you curl in on yourself, listening to the sounds of battle. You can hear a blade slashing flesh, smell the residue of gunfire, and you feel when a body hits the ground one after another.

And then there’s silence.

It takes an olympic feat of strength to pry your eyes open, and the pain is nearly unbearable. You see a blurry set of boots striding towards you, and you let your gaze fall closed when the sweet sound of beskar brushing the concrete floor meets your ears. You feel the cool leather touch your face, moving to your neck and up to cradle your head. No longer able to open your eyes, you manage to move your fingers enough to touch his wrist where a small sliver of heated skin is bared. Veins of hot blood that you had traced in the dark sing beneath your touch, and a tear slips from the corner of your eye.

You hear him muttering in another language, fast and rapid beneath his helmet, as if everything that has happened is too much for his mind to translate in the moment and he’s only able to speak the words he learned as a child. It’s the sound of that beautiful speech that breaks you.

He lifts you up into his arms, trying to hold your bones together as your body spasms through sobbing, wailing, because you’re still alive  _ somehow _ . You can’t control it, you can’t stop it, and you’re worried you won’t be able to. A leather glove, wet with blood, turns your head so your hysteria is smothered into the fabric of his shoulder, and your hands can’t find a place to hold onto, wrenching and pulling at this man who’s saved you twice over.

When you are exhausted beyond speech, beyond the ability to lift your head from where it lolls against his neck, the Mandalorian moves to rest you back against the wall. His gloves cradle your injured face, and you again wonder what he sees. Does he see your foolishness? Certainly, your weakness. Bile rises in your throat, and it’s all you can do to choke on it as well as your pride.

A sound, not unlike the skittering of a mouse, triggers the Mandalorian. He draws his blaster and cages you between his body at the wall faster than the flash grenade, and you hear a small gasp come from the paddock.

“D-Don’t,” you mumble, your lips cracked and your voice dry from your outburst. You imagine the two children, staring at what is rightfully known to be a legend who coldly holds them at gunpoint, cowering back behind the soiled hay. “Don’t hurt them.”

You hear the strain of leather where the warrior holsters his weapon immediately, but nothing happens after that for a long, tense moment. There’s another shift of fabric, and he’s kneeling over you now, sighing wearily. 

“They helped me,” you murmur, forcing your eyes open enough to see his visor is tilted in the direction of the little girl and her brother. “They’re-”

“I know.” 

The Mandalorian stands and approaches the children, and you strain your ears to hear what he says when he begins speaking softly to them. Corde tells him something, ever the brave little thing you’ve come to know, and he seems satisfied when he kneels back down beside you.

“We need to go,  _ Cyare _ . Can you walk?” he asks, touching your jaw with a brush of his fingers.

You wince when you move your feet in your boots, and that seems to be enough of an answer for him. He leaves you again, speaking to the children, and your mind wanders until you’re not sure if you’re awake or asleep. Perhaps it is the lack of food and water, or not having slept for nearly a week, but it feels as if your body is shutting down. The shock from everything is wearing off, and you can’t even feel his arms when they slip beneath you to lift you up.

“You were right,” you murmur, laying your cheek against the warm fabric of his shoulder. You can feel his helmet tilt down to you, almost as if telling silently for you to go on. You close your eyes. “We can’t trust anyone.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mando'a Translations
> 
> Cyare - beloved


	4. I'm Here Now

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You make it back to the Razor Crest, and a familiar face is there to heal your injuries.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So...things that happen in this chapter weren’t supposed to happen for a while. Oops. And to all y’all wanting CLAN OF 5, I swear I will find each and every one of you and gently kiss your forehead.

The desert is unforgiving and glacial at night when the temperature drops. You become aware of how bone-deep the cold is first, and only after the prickling in your limbs begins to wake you do you realize you’re being cradled like a child, carried over sand and rock. Your head rests in the gentle slope between a warm neck and a broad shoulder, and you want to reach up and feel the familiar beskar that you’re held securely against. The sound of his boots in the soft sand is soothing.

There’s a sound of animal from somewhere behind you, and the Mandalorian’s quiet breathing is puffing gently with exertion, enough to tell you he’s been carrying you for some time.

“W-Where are we?” You’re afraid to speak too loud. You don’t know if you even can. The throbbing ache in your head bids you to keep your voice low.

One, two...five, six paces before he tells you, “Heading to the Crest.” There’s another brief pause before he shifts your weight in his arms, and you can feel his eyes drifting over your face. “How badly are you hurt?”

His tone is cold, mechanical. You wonder if he’s angry with you, or if perhaps, like yourself, he is running on what’s left of his conviction after the last few hours. Your mind is foggy trying to catch up to what you can last remember. The pain in your legs and arms has ebbed into an inflamed discomfort, as if you’ve been burned and your muscles are tender, the nerves raw and open. You can feel your toes again, and you move your fingers experimentally where they’re gathered in your lap. 

You never answer him, too afraid to admit it to yourself that you just don’t know. 

The animal that seems to be following you snorts, and you hear a soft giggle. You turn your head enough to pry your eyes open, and for a moment, you think you must be hallucinating the fathier that Corde and Venka are riding, for you can hear the girl’s voice when she whispers to her brother. Neither seem concerned that Tycho is slung over the back of the animal like a sack of feed and just as sentient.

“What are you doing?” you whisper, dropping your head back to its comfortable position. The Mandalorian tilts his head down toward you, shouldering you a bit higher in his arms.

He does not answer.

You continue to lay quietly in his arms, floating in and out of a dreamless sleep. You flinch at the sound of his boots leaving cold sand and hitting steel. The recycled air of the Razor Crest is sweeter than the sea breeze blowing in from the coast, but you make a promise to yourself you will not cry again, even if it is from joy.

The Mandalorian lays you on the cot in the small medical bay, the metal frame and the fabric ribbing providing a rigid support. You groan when he forces you onto your back when all you want is to curl in on yourself, and he huffs with annoyance when you turn your face from him.

“Stop it, I need to see.”

He removes his gloves, laying them on your stomach as his gentle touch ghosts over your face, then your neck and arms. All you want to do is go back to sleep, but you can hear the sounds of the children, of Corde whispering to the fathier outside, and your mind is beginning to pick up speed with questions. 

“W-What happened?” His hand rests over your heart, just beneath your neck as if he can calm its frantic quell with touch alone. You can feel the tremors of his muscles through the gesture, and you lift your own shaking hand to lay over his. 

“We don’t have to talk about it now,” he whispers, his other hand smoothing back your matted, tangled hair. He says the words again,  _ and again _ . You bite your lip, wondering who he is saying them to, who he is saying them for.

Another voice cuts through the heavy air in the ship, familiar and sweet. “Is she here?” 

“Yes,” the Mandalorian croaks, and his hands leave you reluctantly. 

You try to force your eyes open again, but the female voice comes closer and says, “No, don’t-! That’ll make it worse.” They’re both standing over you now, on either side of the cot pulled from the bunk, and you feel cold fingers touching your cheek gently. “Oh...what did they do?” Before anyone can answer, she huffs and wipes her hands on the front of her clothes. You can hear the short, sharp motion, and she says sternly, “Alright, Mando, will you get those supplies out? The ones you said you had.”

The sound of his boots retreating on the cold metal hull draw your head in that direction, but the young woman at your side turns you back. “Do you remember me? We met in that hotel. I wanted to hold your baby.” The Togruta, you think. Yes, that’s where you remember her voice. You’re afraid if you speak that you might choke, so dry is your mouth, so you nod. “I’m a medical student,” she goes on to say, uplifting and almost stubbornly cheerful. “Your Mandalorian found me a few days ago, said he might need my help. I didn’t…” Her voice trails off to a softer whisper. “I didn’t know it would be for this.”

The bounty hunter himself returns, and you can hear the loud scrape of something heavy being moved. A crate, you think, before it’s cracked open. The young woman gasps, “Oh yes, this will do. Do you have a knife?” 

Both you and the Mandalorian grow still. “What for?” he demands, voice hard and cold. You can imagine how he must be standing, probably even glaring from behind that shined visor. He only sounds that way after a job, when he’s hungry and tired and his patience and trust for the world has been exhausted.

The Togruta sighs impatiently, “I need to cut her dress off. Please?”

“Oh,” he whispers, more to himself than anyone else. You can hear his boots approach, and suddenly he touches your shoulder where half your body is bared from your ripped gown. “I’ll do it.” He pauses, his fingers squeezing the top of your arm gently, and he asks for permission, “Is...is this alright?” 

You don’t realize you’re holding your breath until you suddenly part your lips to answer. Nothing comes out, the tightness in your throat and the fluttering in your stomach robbing you of words. You nod, and you feel his thumb rub gently against your collar before he begins the task. He slips his bare fingers beneath the torn neckline of your dress, and you hear when he unsheathes his knife, the quiet slide of metal piercing the air. He keeps the blade well oiled and sharpened, and it cuts through the cloth like butter. 

The pretty cloth he’d given you.

The motions are strangely soothing. You’re aware of his hands holding the cloth away from your skin so as not to accidentally cut you, and the fabric parts, exposing you to the cool air. You think you should be embarrassed to be on display like this, but it pales in comparison to having a gun trained on your head. The thin band covering your chest and the simple undergarment at your hips doesn’t leave you with any spare warmth, but as soon as the dress falls away in tatters, something heavy and familiar falls over you.

His cloak.

“Alright,” the Togruta murmurs, her voice hesitant to speak of the tenderness she has witnessed. “Now leave us alone, I need to focus.”

The Mandalorian seems to only hesitate a moment, and he takes your heart with him when he turns on his heel to leave. You hoped he might stay, and you let out a deep sigh when you sink down into the cot beneath the heavy fabric. 

True to her word, the Togruta works efficiently. You can smell the sterile cleaning ointments she uses to wipe away blood and dirt from your skin. It’s mostly covering your upper body, and you hope you can shower soon. You hear her sigh when she pushes her fingers along your hairline, and you wince away from her prodding.

“Oh, I’m sorry. There’s a cut there, I’ll need to stitch it. Turn your head for me?” As you do so, you don’t realize how tense you become when she begins to part your hair to see the gash closer. “You know,” she says after a moment, flushing the wound with a cleaning solution. “Your baby really is the sweetest thing. I finally got to hold him.”

You frown gently, focusing on her voice instead of thinking about what she’s doing. “Y-You did?”

“Mmhm. Cute little bug. That bounty hunter almost broke down my door with him in tow,” she says, and you can tell she’s smiling. “Asked if I’d seen you, and lucky for him I had. Don’t know where you were going,” she adds as an afterthought. “But he was lucky I’m an early riser. He hadn’t had much luck for a few days, turning the hotel upside down and then all of Oldtown. I’m supposed to be taking a break from my training, but I can’t really keep myself in bed, so I get up to walk in the morning.” Her mindless chatter veering off from her story is endearing, and you’re grateful for it when she tugs at the torn skin of your scalp. When you hiss, she’s quick to flush it with more solution, and it numbs. “I’m surprised he didn’t get arrested for disturbing the peace.”

You lay in silence, collecting every word she gives you like precious stones, and you swallow hard. All those days spent in confusion and hopelessness, he’d been looking for you.

“You said...he came to you?” you ask, voice hoarse.

“Oh, yeah. He needed someone to watch your little one, and I asked him where you were, because-well, it just seemed to me not to make a lot of sense, him knocking on my door needing a babysitter. That’s when he told me he was trying to find you, that he hadn’t seen you in a couple hours,” she pauses here, beginning to stitch the cut up. You can feel the movements, but there’s no pain. “I knew it must have been serious. You don’t seem like the type to just...run off,” she adds quietly. “Asked if I knew a good healer, and what do you know? Got myself some contract work. My teachers will be happy to hear that, let me tell you.”

When she’s finished with the cut on your head, she seems to consider something, because she goes very quiet for a long time before asking, “You...can you feel your legs?”

You pause, moving your toes back and forth, then your fingers, and then nod.

“That’s good,” she sighs, using her hands to cup your arm and gently working her thumbs down your limb.

Your heart is beating quick again from her tone, and you ask, “W-Why? What do you see?”

“Nailbeds are all...discolored,” she mutters, thinking out loud more than answering you. “Bad circulation, maybe.”

“I couldn’t move for a long-a long time,” you mutter, turning your head to the side. Her fingers pause at your wrist, turning your hand in a gentle rotation. “May I have some water?”

“Oh, of course.”

You listen to her move away, and you’re left alone for several minutes. You draw your hands over the thick, rich fabric of the Mandalorian’s cloak, and you don’t remember it feeling so soft. 

The exit ramp of the ship opens, mechanics whirring to lower it to the ground, and a rumbling gait makes the hull shake. You can hear Corde cooing quietly, and you blink when you hear the fathier release a long, relieved huff before laying itself down. 

“New pet?” the Togruta asks brightly, and you hear the Mandalorian grunt noncommittally as an answer.

What in all the worlds was he  _ doing _ ?

Your healer returns, petting your hair back in a soothing motion. “The last thing I’ll do is apply a bacta salve to your eyes to help with the pain and swelling. You must try to keep your eyes closed, or else it’ll burn awfully bad and take longer to heal. Bu, um,” she leans down closer to you, and you can feel her breath brushing the top of your head where she whispers. “Is there anything...else?”

Frowning, you tilt your head to the side, unsure of her meaning.

“Did they hurt you where maybe...maybe we can’t see?” 

A heavy flush of shame drops to your stomach like a hot stone. You know she should ask-she wouldn’t be considered a healer if she didn’t think of the possibility. Why had that not occurred to you? Swallowing the tightness in your throat, you rasp, “N-No. No, they didn’t...hurt me that way.”

She lays her hand on your forehead in a soothing gesture that eases some of the emotional discomfort, and she seems satisfied. “Alright, then. I’m going to wrap your eyes after I apply the salve, to keep it compressed. It will help ease the pain when the swelling goes down.”

The salve is cold to the touch, but it feels deliriously good against your battered, bruised face. Her touch is soft, applying it from your cheekbones up to your eyebrows, and when she’s finished, she lays a thick pad of cotton across your eyes before wrapping gauze around your head in a firm band. The darkness of having your eyes shielded makes you feel sick, and you have to focus on relaxing rather than trying to listen to every little sound.

“Can I ask you something personal?”

You lay your hands flat against your stomach, focusing on your breath. “Y-Yes?”

“Is there a reason you don’t...have a walking aid?” The surprise you feel must show on your face, because she goes on quickly. “It’s just that I’ve met many people with impairments and they usually have some sort of help-an assistant, a service animal...but you don’t.”

You press your hands firmly against your belly, breathing deep. “I used to have one,” you tell her quietly. You don’t know where the children are or the Mandalorian is, and you don’t want to say anything that might open this door you’d rather keep shut. “It helped a lot to have it. I feel like I’m so slow,” you confess, a powerful bout of frustration brimming to the surface. “But it was confiscated, and my master did not want to replace it when I was sold.”

The Togruta lays her hand over yours. “You’re a very strong woman, you know. I hope we get to meet again someday.” 

Overwhelming gratefulness runs through you, and you squeeze her hand, whispering, “Thank you.”

She withdraws, and you listen to her quiet footsteps retreat. You want to get up and find out what’s happening, but the relief from your pain is so great that you fall asleep almost instantly. There’s no way for you to tell how long you’re out, and every time you wake up, your memory seems even foggier than before. 

There’s a quiet hum of the Razor Crest’s engines, so you know you’ve left Cantonica behind.

You are not sorry at the thought.

Slowly, you become aware of different sounds-the deep breathing of the fathier sleeping, the familiar thrum of the recycled air system, and the quiet current beneath the consoles that seem to rush like blood in veins. But past all of that, there are hushed voices nearby, and you train your ears to listen.

“Come here,” the Mandalorian says, so close to the uncomfortable cot you’re laying on that it surprises you. It takes all your composure not to jolt. You listen to the light padding of feet, a quiet grunt, and something settles on top of a crate.

After a moment, you’re shocked to hear Corde gasp, “ _ Ay!  _ That’s  _ cold _ !”

“If you don’t want an infection, you’ll be still,” mutters the Mandalorian. The little girl mumbles under her breath, and you hear the bounty hunter sigh askance. It’s a long time before he finally declares quietly, “There, I’m done. Get your brother and I’ll do the same for him.”

You hadn’t been able to see any injuries the children must have had, and you feel helpless that you didn’t know, that you couldn’t help. You’re not sure if anyone knows you’re awake, so you choose to lay silent and still, losing yourself in the sounds of the Mandalorian fussing with gauze and bottles of bacta spray, muttering Mando’a under his breath. 

“You shouldn’t say bad words,” Corde promptly informs him.

The noises of him messing with containers of medicine abruptly stops. “Excuse me?”

“I said,” she speaks with a testy patience, as if he’s slow. “You shouldn’t say bad words.”

“And how do you know what I said?” His tone is challenging, but it holds nothing ill nor angry. In fact, he sounds amused, if not completely befuddled by being bossed around by a waif of a girl. You don’t think you’ve ever heard him speak that way, and a small twitch of your lips threatens a smile.

Corde seems to realize she does not know, in fact, what he said so she answers, “I just do.”

When you feel something moving near your head, you tense, because you know it isn’t the Mandalorian. He’s still rummaging through one of the crates holding the medical supplies. You feel a tiny hand, with three fingers, rest against your cheek, and you have to bring your own hand to your mouth to smother the sudden cry that breaks from your chest. 

You shuffle quietly, desperate to fight from under the cloak that’s been tucked firmly around your body, and you lift the little child up into your arms. You think you hug him so fiercely you might be hurting him, but he begins to hiccup with soft, squeaking little cries, burying his small face into the crook of your neck. You squeeze your eyes tight beneath the gauze, trying to ward off the tears that are gathering.

“Hello, my heart,” you whisper, kissing his brow when he lays both of his hands against your bruised cheeks. You feel him press his little forehead against your own, and it’s all you can do not to lose yourself. His little hiccups shake his entire body, and you feel how low his ears hang as he tries to get closer. “Oh, I’m here now.”

A warm, gloved hand touches the crown of your head, and you shiver when you feel the Mandalorian leaning over you, petting your hair as gently as he did by the stream a lifetime ago. He’s put his gloves back on, and his other hand lays over yours across the child’s back. Neither of you say anything, quietly hoping that between both of you the little cries from the baby will soothe.

“I tried to keep him distracted,” the Mandalorian eventually whispers, his thumb stroking over your knuckle when sleep overcomes the little green infant. “To let you sleep. You need to rest.”

“Oh please, let him stay,” you whimper, holding him closer to you. His head is pillowed beneath your chin, his tiny hands holding fistfulls of your hair. “Please, I’ll sleep, I just want him close.”

“ _ K’uur. _ ” You feel your heart, galloping hard beneath the child’s cheek, quiet into a gentle pace at how soft the Mandalorian’s voice is, lowering into a peaceful timbre. Your lip is quivering, you realize, when he draws his hand away from yours to brush the leather clad tips of his fingers gently over your chin. He says your name tenderly, fingers trickling down over the smooth slope of your neck, and you feel yourself sink bonelessly into the cot.

“Is she awake?” Corde asks, the quiet slap-slap of her feet against the hull making you turn your head. You don’t want to disturb the child nestling against you, though, so you don’t move beyond that.

The Mandalorian sighs wearily, sitting up from where he was nearly laying over you. “Yes, but we need to let her rest.”

“I don’t know if I can sleep on this thing again,” you mutter, trying to shift. The cot really is terrible. You’d never had any kind of comforts before, and your basis of comparison was a mattress with no springs or the floor before you were sold. Now that you sleep in real beds, you find it hard to get comfortable on the ribbing of the medical cot.

“Can you make it up the ladder?” he asks, laying his hand across your midsection. You swallow, able to feel the warmth of his hand between the glove and his cloak. You wiggle your toes, thinking it’s probably risky from how deliriously tired you are, but the idea of staying the whole night on the cot is abhorrent. 

You begin to raise yourself up, keeping the child against you with one hand while leaning all your weight on the other. Naturally, the bounty hunter’s cloak falls down your body, but he moves to cover you with it immediately, seeming intent to protect your modesty even when you’re in such a lethargic state. You murmur your thanks as he wraps the cloak around you twice, tucking it at your shoulder.

“Is that your baby?” Corde asks, coming to stand just below you. She lays a hand on your knee, and you can hear her straining up on her tiptoes to get a look at the child currently drowsing against your chest. Venka leans against your other leg, shorter than his older sibling.

The Mandalorian keeps one hand beneath your elbow and the other at your back as you shakily stand up, and you’re grateful he’s there because your knees nearly buckle. Your legs turn to water at her question. Before you can tell her the truth, the Mandalorian does it for you.

“Yes.”

“Oh, he’s so cute,” Corde whispers, watching as you sway on your feet, leaning closer to the bounty hunter who keeps you upright.

“Are you sure you can walk?” he asks, more to himself out of concern than he seems to really be asking you. 

“I’m sure I’m not sleeping down here,” you mutter, and you can hear him sigh when you make it to the ladder. His hand doesn’t leave your back, and he remains behind you as you shoulder your way up to the top deck. Without any awareness of your surroundings, you move at a slower, stunted pace, and your gratefulness outweighs your embarrassment when the Mandalorian guides you into his quarters. It’s as chilly as you remember, and with only his cloak providing any kind of warmth, you’re shivering quickly.

You sit on the edge of the bed, taking a deep breath, and you find yourself with a tiny smile when Corde climbs up beside you. The Mandalorian is moving around in the room, and you can hear him pulling open a cabinet and a drawer. “I told you she needs to rest.”

“I’m not bothering her!” Corde pouts.

There’s another, softer patter of footsteps, and soon Venka pulls himself up on the other side. When the cabinet and drawers close, you hear the Mandalorian sigh as if he’s found his bed overrun. He approaches you, laying something in your lap before disentangling the child from your arms. Your hands fall to what he’s presented, and you find a thick woolen tunic and trousers. They’re soft, well-worn things, and your face heats when you realize they’re his.

“Come on, out, all of you,” he huffs with no bite, shooing them off the bed. You listen to them leave the room, and he lingers at the door. His voice is pitched much lower now, and you feel a strange tightness in your stomach, like a sick excitement you can’t put a name to. “Do...do you need help?”

Biting your lip, your hands feel the clothes out, blushing deeper. “I...I’ve never worn trousers before.”

There’s a pregnant pause, and you hear the doors slide shut, followed by the quiet thump of his boots. You hear him lay the child in the cradle, closing the shutters on it before approaching you. “Would you like help?” 

You nod, fingers fumbling with the cloak to unravel it from around your body. Even though you’re so exposed, you don’t feel his eyes on you. The Mandalorian is quiet while he helps slip the tunic over your head, minding the bandages around your eyes, and you feel immediately comforted by the familiar scent of his soap in the clean fabric. It’s thick, chasing away the chill on your skin. 

He kneels down, taking the trousers from you, and cups your ankle to lead your foot through the pant leg, then the other. The fabric is warm against your skin, and he drags it with a perfunctory gentleness, muttering, “Stand up.”

Laying your hands on his pauldrons, you use him for balance and do so, blushing when he secures the waistband around your hips. You have a bit more curve than he does, and the fabric is loose in some places and fitted in others. He stands with you, tying the laces while you lean into him.

“Thank you.” 

He must hear how much more you’re saying, because his fingers draw to a pause at your waist. You can feel him staring now, and you breathe deeply. “For everything, for-I didn’t expect…”

When his hand lifts to touch your cheek, you have to swallow the tears that clog your throat, leaning into his hand as if you could abandon yourself in his palm. Your words are small and strangled. “I didn’t know what to hope for.”

The modulator of his helmet does nothing to mask how his voice is like sand-heated, smooth, and scratchy at the same time. “Did you really think I wouldn’t come for you,  _ Cyare _ ?” he whispers, leaning his helmet against your brow. Your hands drift, one to his arm and the other to cup the hand that holds your face. “That I would not follow?”

Your lips tremble, and you feel the gauze grow wet where the tears you have held back begin to soak through. “I-I-I didn’t k-know,” you whimper, and his arms are suddenly wrapping you up, hauling you against his firm body where you curl and find the security, the stability you have longed for. You hate that you can’t seem to stop  _ crying _ , that you were so close to losing everything because of one mistake. “I d-didn’t know-”

He moves almost like a dance, turning and bringing you onto his lap as he sits on the edge of the bed, and you feel yourself sink bonelessly into the embrace. You wish you could peel the beskar from his body, feel the softness you know is beneath, but when one of his hands steals away to cup the side of your neck, you forget that line of thinking. 

“I would have torn that city apart for you,” he whispers, and he sounds fearful of his own confession. Perhaps he’s afraid of your reaction, of you crying more, or of what it means to be bare before someone else. “I-I’m sorry...I’m sorry it took me so long, I-”

The flare of heat in your breast is suddenly too much to bear, too much for you to breathe, and the words that fall from your mouth are a small gasp. “T-Take your helmet off. Plea-”

His hands leave you, and you can hear the soft hiss and the catch unlatching. The beskar bounces on the mattress when it falls out of his hands, and your fingers find the fabric that covers his neck, curling into it when he presses his brow back to yours. The feeling of how warm he is, the real him pressed against you is like an electrical current, and you can’t help drawing in air like you’ve been drowning without it your whole life.

He fumbles with his gloves, but he’s not quick enough, because your skin is prickling with this unfurling burn, and all it takes is a small tilt of your head to press your lips sweetly to the corner of his mouth for it to turn white hot, deep within your belly. Facial hair tickles the delicate skin near your lips, and you might have giggled had his bare hands not drawn you flush to his armored chest to press his mouth fully against your own.

You both  _ groan _ , fingers curling and digging into each other, against his neck, at your waist, over his shoulder, and you can taste the dryness of the desert and the sweat of his skin when he parts his lips beneath your own. Your back arches gently when his fingers press firm into the flesh of your waist, and it’s all you can do not to faint from how full you feel with closeness, with want. 

It’s like an arrow being split down the center when he tears his mouth away, panting harder than if he’d chased down a bounty, and your hands run over the sides of his face, feeling the beautiful slopes of cheeks and the quaint ears beneath thick curls. He jerks his head to the side, pressing an open mouthed kiss to your palm, and you press your knees together where they lay across his lap, realizing you’re struggling for air from how tightly you’re pressed against him.

“You need to rest,” he moans, sounding as if he’d taken that arrow straight to his side, and you draw your thumb down his very prominent nose. 

You lean against him, head spinning and lips aching for more of what you’ve never had.

“Then lay me down.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mando'a Translations
> 
> K’uur - Hush
> 
> Cyare - Beloved


End file.
